


Axis

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03, Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 17:31:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17687828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: There is no room for fancy metaphors and pretty words between them anymore. Maybe never again. The salt and the spray have stripped them both to beings of soupy flesh and bone shards and Will is tired, so utterly tired, of standing tall when all he wants to do is move on his belly like the snake of Eden.





	Axis

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for the "After the Fall" Hannigram zine. Major thanks to Ollie and Luc for organizing it, it was a lot of fun even though I'm allergic to word count limits xD

"Why did you do it?"

This is not the time to be having this conversation. Granted, it's never been the right time. Wrong universe. Wrong moment, wrong angle of the knife or ill-timed word. Some off-kilter axis like a carnival ride where everything feels like just a little too much.

Will rolls his head to the side, their boat rocking. Hannibal has a hard time lying down, something about fluid in his lungs and the pulverized shoulder blade and he's in pain, Will can tell he's in pain, but he meets Will's eyes with the same steady assurance he always has.

"Why did I do what?" he rasps. Unlike Hannibal, Will has spent the days after mostly horizontal. His neck can barely hold the weight of his head, his shoulders are shot to shit, and both legs are broken in at least three different places. 'Hairline fractures', Hannibal had said. 'Clean breaks'. As though proud of Will's body for taking damage intelligently.

Hannibal smiles. His jaw is bruised almost black and it makes his lips look purple. Makes his teeth shine in the light reflected through the window.

His fingers flex around the bandage holding his injured arm and shoulder close to him. "All my careful prodding and maneuvering, and you choose instead to fling yourself from a cliff." He huffs, and winces. "Both of us. Quite a dramatic decision."

Will licks his lips, looks up to the dark wood ceiling. "I wanted you dead," he says, plainly. There is no room for fancy metaphors and pretty words between them anymore. Maybe never again. The salt and the spray have stripped them both to beings of soupy flesh and bone shards and Will is tired, so utterly tired, of standing tall when all he wants to do is move on his belly like the snake of Eden.

"And yet, here we are."

Will smiles. "Divine Intervention."

"Ah, the wrath of God. Or His forgiveness."

Will huffs a laugh, and grimaces when it causes pain to lance down his arms and legs. "God's forgiveness is a bitch," he mutters. "He brought a church roof down on our heads, but we survived. Maybe that's a sign."

"A mighty one."

Will turns his head again, lashes going low. Hannibal is bowed forward, his good elbow resting on his knee, his eyes sharp and reddened like a single drop of blood in a whiskey tumbler. He looks terrible – it's the first thing Will said when he regained consciousness.

Hannibal's head tilts, cat-like, spying a bird beyond the window. "Do you still want me dead, Will?" he murmurs, and there is a strange vulnerability to it. The same creature that clutched at him on the edge of the cliffs and wanted that bloody, beautiful future for the both of them.

Will forces himself to roll, lifting one tired, trembling hand. He reaches out, can't reach far enough, and grits his teeth and growls when he can't quite – can't -.

Hannibal is there, standing and then kneeling beside him, and he takes Will's hand in his own, gently easing him onto his back again so his shoulders stop screaming. Will shudders, gasping, closes his eyes and makes his hand rest, graceless, pawing, at the bruised side of Hannibal's face.

When he opens his eyes again, Hannibal is there. Behind his eyelids and also in the flesh, right here, right next to him, where he should be.

"No," he whispers, finally, and thumbs the corner of Hannibal's brow. Cups, tenderly, and then his strength is gone and his hand falls limp. "No. I don't want you dead anymore."

Hannibal's mouth tics upwards at the corners.

"Good," he murmurs, pleased and relieved. His eyes shine, brightly.

Will sighs. "I'm tired, Hannibal," he says.

Hannibal turns his head, his lips to Will's wrist, and sighs. "I know," he replies. "Rest, my dear Will. Forever can wait a while longer."


End file.
